


A Stitch in Time Saves the Nine

by Murder_Kitten



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BAMF Thranduil, Caring Thranduil, Council of Elrond, Elrond's Healing Mastery, F/M, Fellowship of the Ring, Gandalf Is So Done, Last Alliance of Elves and Men, Misty Mountains, POV Thranduil, Parent Thranduil, Protective Thranduil, Rings of Power, Rivendell | Imladris, Sassy Elrond, Stubborn Dwarves, The Hobbit References, War of the Ring, Where In Middle-Earth Is Gandalf?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24208066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murder_Kitten/pseuds/Murder_Kitten
Summary: When the Fellowship strays from their quest and it looks to be doomed to fail,  the last of the Elven kingdoms will fight to unite Middle Earth to stand against Sauron and turn the tide of evil before it covers all the lands in a second darkness. When fate is turned on its head and Boromir's destiny is changed, the path of redemption he takes will lead him and the Three Hunters on a path they had not thought to take, a path that just might save them all.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. The Windlord

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gcgraywriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gcgraywriter/gifts).



> Disclaimer: the characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien. No copyright infringement is intended. I make no profit from these works. All stories are for fun and entertainment only. 
> 
> I always welcome reviews/comments of people who enjoy my works.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoy it.

Awareness came slowly to Gandalf Greyhame. For many days and nights he had been adrift in a sea of stars, a wanderer in a cloud of mist and vapour, untethered from his mortal form. In that time, he had had no conscious thought nor memory even of his own personhood or the events that had led to this ‘out of body experience.’ He smiled with bemusement at the absurdity of the Shire expression. Out of body! The only time the hobbits experienced anything even remotely akin to this was when they would, on occasion, overindulge in pipeweed, the blessed Old Toby filling their minds with strange sights and imaginings that were beyond their comprehension. He shook his head. This was no pipeweed hallucination. It had been the end. Death. _Hadn’t it?_ He frowned, unsure, feeling slowly creeping back into his limbs. He was cold, he realised, so cold. Freezing. Where were his garments? Memory flashed like lightning before his eyes and he frowned still more deeply. A voice seemed to echo in his head, a young voice, that of a boy. No, a hobbit.

“Gandalf! Gandalf!!” the voice was wailing.

_Gandalf,_ he mused to himself. The name was familiar. Had it been his? He had once had so many names, it was hard to keep track. _Mithrandir_ the elves called him, _the Grey Pilgrim._ Yet, to men in the South, he was known as _Inc_ _ànus_. To the dwarves, he was _Thark_ _ŭn._ And, yes, it was coming back to him now… To the hobbits of the Shire and all throughout this green earth, they called him _Gandalf._ He remembered now, _Gandalf the Grey._

He remembered other things too, faces flashing before his eyes. Four young faces, childlike, with curly hair and bright smiles, the black curls and blue eyes of one of these seeming to remind him of something important. There was something he’d forgotten to do, someplace he was meant to be. Then more faces… A young elf prince, a bearded dwarf, a warrior from Gondor, and _him,_ he was important, central to it all – the Ranger, _Aragorn._ He needed to find them, he realised, sitting up and looking over the edge of the snowy precipice he had been lying on for what seemed an age. There was no way down, he thought, eying the impenetrable face of the cliff below him with apprehension.

A piercing cry was carried to him on the wind, the sound a welcome one in this snowy isolation, and a familiar one. For the call was not that of any mere bird. No indeed. He recognised it instantly, the call of his old friend, Gwaihir the Windlord.

“You are a welcome sight, old friend," Gandalf sighed with relief as the great eagle landed nearby.

“Gandalf," the eagle said in respectful greeting, dipping his magnificent head. “I have sought places both high and low for you.”

“At whose bidding?” Gandalf asked, wishing he had a cloak as a chill wind whipped around him, driving the cold deeper into his bones.

“The Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien. It is she who tasked me with finding you; a burden I was only too willing to bear. And here I find you at last, in this barren place," Gwaihir said, gazing around at the snowy landscape, his keen eyes noting the burned and broken remains of the ancient demon, the dread creature born of shadow and fire, the wielder of the Flame of Ùdŭn; the Balrog of Morgoth, bane of the dwarves of Moria, feared by elf and mortal alike.

“Now you have found me, old friend, pray, might I ask you a favour?” Gandalf requested, feeling his nakedness now more than ever, as Gwaihir turned his keen eye on the old wizard.

“You well know that I owe you far more than I can ever repay," Gwaihir said graciously. “Ask, and if it is in my power, by the ancient spirits of the wind, I shall grant it," he swore solemnly.

“I require news, tidings of my friends," Gandalf said urgently.

“That, I cannot give much of," Gwaihir said. “I was informed that a company led by Aragorn son of Arathorn has entered the Golden Wood and received the blessing and protection of the Lady, but beyond that, I cannot say.”

They were safe then, Gandalf thought with relief. It was enough for now. The Elves would see that no harm came to them.

“One more thing I would ask of you, old friend," Gandalf said softly.

“Whatever you require," Gwaihir promised.

“Bear me as far as Lothlorien. I must seek the counsel of the Lady Galadriel," Gandalf said earnestly.

“I am sorry, but this I cannot do," Gwaihir said regretfully.

“Why not?” Gandalf demanded, a spark of his old fiery ire coming to life again.

“The Lady of Light instructed me that if I should be fortunate enough to find you, I was to bear you to the Hidden Valley: Imladris, where Lord Elrond awaits you," Gwaihir explained.

“Very well," Gandalf said with a weary nod. “Take me to Lord Elrond. We will have much to discuss.”

Gwaihir nodded agreeably, extending a wing and allowing Gandalf to climb up behind the wing joint and perch atop his back, clinging to a spot just behind his great, feathered neck.

The eagle spread his mighty wings, which extended to a span Gandalf could not have guessed, as Gwaihir dove gracefully from the cliff, carried upwards by strong updraughts of swirling air, bearing his old friend away from the icy mountains and towards the hidden valley of elves, where fair voices sang in sweet melody with the loud waters of the Bruinen River and the sun was shining…


	2. The Gift of Foresight

It had been several days since Gandalf had returned to Rivendell, borne on the wings of the wind, or it’s lord at least, Gwaihir having taken his leave to scour the plains for news of the Fellowship, and anything pertaining to the movements of great armies out of Isengard and Mordor. Days it had been, and still Lord Elrond did not seek him out. Life in Rivendell seemed to carry on much as it had the last ages, full of music and song and the gentle grace of the elves which seemed to touch everything in the valley. Though the number of elves remaining in the House of Elrond had dwindled since Gandalf journeyed here last, there were still a great number here, many who had come to seek the great elf lord’s counsel. Many more elves had already departed for the Grey Havens and would never return to the shores of Middle Earth, an entire race would fade into memory, records of them would gather dust in the libraries of withered historians and someday these records would crumble into dust themselves, the great deeds of elf lords passing into the fanciful realms of myth and legend, mere folklore and tall tales, such as may be heard at the Green Dragon in Bywater on a summer’s eve.

A knock came at his door, and Gandalf rose immediately to answer it, draping his new white cloak over his shoulders. He was garbed now all in white, new garments for a new name. Gandalf the _White_ as the elves now called him, reborn and raised up, now hailed as the head of the _Heren Istarion_ , the Order of Wizards.

“Elrond,” he muttered distractedly as he pulled the door open. “It is past ti—” But it was not Lord Elrond on the other side of the door.

“Mithrandir," The elf said with a graceful dip of his golden head. “My Lord Elrond wishes me to summon you to the Hall of Meeting. A council is to be held.”

“Glorfindel," Gandalf said, recognising the elf. “You are a High Lord among elves, is not such message carrying beneath you?”

“I am no greater than any other, Mithrandir. The greatest honour is to be of service in dark days such as these," Glorfindel said, leading Gandalf from his room to the Hall of Meeting.

The last council of Lord Elrond’s had been held outdoors with many faces and peoples represented, it seemed the elf lord wished to be far more subtle and secretive this time, Gandalf mused upon entering the Hall of Meeting behind Glorfindel.

Lord Elrond looked up as they entered. “My thanks, Glorfindel," he said quietly, his stern face not betraying a hint of the machinations that went on behind his keen eyes.

“Mithrandir, welcome. Be seated," he ordered, as both Gandalf and Glorfindel took their seats around the intricately carved table of mallorn wood.

Gandalf studied the golden wood curiously. He had never seen the like of this table before, and this hall was strange to him, having never been invited into it even once in all his long years of visits to Rivendell. Curious indeed.

Lord Elrond cleared his throat and Gandalf looked up guiltily, his reverie broken. He studied the faces of Lord Elrond’s assembled council for the first time. All were known to him, but some he was surprised to see. There was Glorfindel, of course, Lord Elrond and his daughter Arwen Ùndomièl. The Lady Galadriel was also present, seated beside the captain of her guard, Haldir of Lorien. Perhaps the greatest surprise was the presence of the King of Mirkwood, Thranduil – it had been long since he had journeyed from his hidden elven stronghold, deep in the wood where only elves and the occasional Ranger dared to venture. And beside the great king was a Silvan elf Gandalf had not seen in many years. He had believed her to have perished long ago, her grief over the loss of her mortal love Kili of the line of Durin, was said to have broken her spirit, one of the few things that could kill an immortal elf, yet here she sat – Tauriel of Mirkwood, unaged, but not unchanged, a deep sorrow lingering in her eyes.

“Lord Elrond, if I might speak?” Thranduil said softly, his icy coldness undiminished by the length of years that had passed since last he and Gandalf had met.

Lord Elrond inclined his head respectfully, allowing his guest to address the small council.

“Some assembled here may wonder what has brought me on so long a journey from Mirkwood," he began, his glittering eyes never leaving Gandalf’s face. “I am seeking my son, Legolas. He was sent to Lord Elrond with a message of the creature Gollum’s escape and has not returned.”

Gandalf made to interrupt, but Lord Elrond slowly shook his head at his old friend, bidding him be silent.

“A message came to my hall from Lord Elrond,” Thranduil continued. “He bid me keep watch for a company of nine, led by Mithrandir and requested I lend them my aid, should they journey beneath the eaves of Mirkwood. I am to understand that my _son_ is in this company?” he said, looking to Lord Elrond.

“He is. Legolas swore his service to a member of the company, and departed Imladris to fulfill his vow.” Lord Elrond said carefully.

“And to where is this company bound?” Thranduil asked, looking from Gandalf to Elrond.

“To the land of Mordor and the fires of Orodruin," Galadriel answered.

“I see," Thranduil said icily. ”And what is the purpose of journeying to such a place? … The destruction of the One Ring, perhaps?” he said, as an audible gasp rippled through the council.

Gandalf looked furious and a little worried. “How came you to know of this?” he asked, staring incredulously at the elven king.

“I am no fool," Thranduil said dismissively. “Word has reached my ears of the Nazgŭl riding again through mortal lands. Everywhere they go asking for a land called ‘Shire’ and a person called ‘Baggins.’ The same Baggins who infiltrated my stronghold and freed a dozen dwarves, I presume," he said, glaring at the wizard, the security breach not forgotten in these long years. “I warned you trouble would come of it, Mithrandir," he declared.

When Gandalf did not answer, he persisted. “It has been found then.”

“It has. And it is long out of our reach," Lord Elrond said warningly as Thranduil narrowed his eyes.

“So, then. Whose _wise_ plan was it to send my only son and heir to his death in the Shadowlands with a company of children?” he said, his eyes flashing with anger.

Guilt flashed across Elrond’s stern face for the briefest of moments. Thranduil had the right of it. How would he react if the situation were reversed and Arwen had journeyed to Mordor with the Fellowship? He would never have allowed it. Neither, he supposed, would Thranduil if he had been given a say in the matter.

Thranduil however, was not done. “Let me guess…” he said coldly. “Did this wise course come from the same brilliant mind that thought a dozen ragtag dwarves and a simpleminded halfling could kill a dragon and reclaim a mountain?”

A ringing silence followed his words as Gandalf wondered whether it would be wise to remind Thranduil that there had in fact been _thirteen_ dwarves, but seeing the icy fury in the elf’s face, he thought better of it and remained silent.

“Or perhaps…” Thranduil said quietly. “It came from the infinite wisdom of the elf who failed to control one foolish mortal and has allowed Middle Earth to be brought to the brink of annihilation for a second time," he said furiously, glaring at Elrond, who almost winced, reminded of his failure to intervene when Isildur had taken the One Ring for himself and set them all on this course towards a second end of days.

Both Elrond and Gandalf averted their eyes from Thranduil’s icy gaze.

“It is far too desperate and foolhardy for one alone to conceive," Thranduil mused. “The two of you planned this together then?” he said coldly, as neither Gandalf nor Elrond objected to Thranduil’s observations.

“The _quest_ may yet succeed," Gandalf said quietly, as Thranduil cast him a withering look.

Did the wizard truly think he cared about the outcome of some poorly conceived quest? He cared about his _son._ Legolas must return with him to Mirkwood, or seek the Grey Havens, he must be safe. Why could Mithrandir not understand this?

“The quest is failing," Galadriel said with conviction. “If we do not intervene now, all will be lost forever. The mortal and immortal lands will turn dark and all things good and fair will be destroyed," she said ominously.

“What are we to do?” Glorfindel asked, looking to the leaders of the three elf kingdoms.

“You must understand, young elf, the things I have gazed upon in the depths of my Mirror… They may come to pass. They may not. And we may yet find in the course of any action this small council deems necessary to take that the things we have foreseen are unchangeable. We have not the power to turn the hand of fate aside," Galadriel said gently.

“You said _we. We have foreseen…_ What did you see, Father?” Arwen asked, turning to Elrond.

“A great many things, Daughter," he said solemnly. “But as the Lady of Lorien says, nothing is certain," he said doubtfully.

“So, I ask again: what needs to be done? What action ought we to take?” Glorfindel asked.

“We need first and foremost, to form an alliance and establish unity between the three elfdoms – Mirkwood, Lothlorien and Rivendell. All must join together and be of one purpose if our actions are to have any lasting impact," Lord Elrond said. “No longer can we hide in our forests and strongholds, fencing the mortal world out. The woods will burn and the Grey Havens be destroyed if we sit idly by.”

Even Thranduil nodded at this, seeming deep in thought, but there was no denying the wisdom of Lord Elrond’s words. “Divided we fall…” he mused. “What of this Company?” he asked.

“The Ringbearer will set out alone to complete his task ere long. I must go to them soon. And swiftly," Lord Elrond declared. “They will have dire need of a Healer with more power and knowledge than Aragorn alone possesses. The Gondorian who travels with him, Boromir son of Denethor has a greater part to play in the war to come than even he knows. I must ensure he lives long enough to see it," Lord Elrond said grimly.

“What of Saruman?” Haldir asked, speaking for the first time. “We have all heard dark tidings of the armies he is amassing in Isengard. The number of foul creatures in the service of the White Hand grows every day. What is to be done about him? He burns the woods of Fangorn, it will not be long before his mind turns to Mirkwood or Lothlorien," he said worriedly.

“Fangorn itself will rise up against him," Lady Galadriel promised. “The Spirits of the Old World will awaken. Saruman dooms himself though he does not yet know it," she declared and Haldir nodded, satisfied that his Lady knew more of Saruman’s fate than he did.

“It is to the world of men our minds must turn," Lord Elrond said gravely. “Battle comes for the people of Rohan and of Gondor. The first blow will fall at the old stronghold of Helm’s Deep. The men of Rohan must receive our aid long before they think to ask for it. A large force of elves from our three kingdoms must be sent in aid. Haldir will lead them to fight for Théoden, King of Rohan and Aragorn, son of Arathorn. The defences of that fortress of stone must hold.” 

Haldir nodded grimly. “Then hold they will," he promised.

“A messenger must seek for Eomer son of Eomund and his Rohirrim – many horses and men will flock to his banner. He is the future of Rohan and he will be needed to turn the tide against Saruman," Galadriel added. “I would task Gandalf with this – Eomer is known to him. He will listen to your counsel," she declared as the old wizard nodded in agreement.

“We must rally elves and men throughout the lands – the battle of the end of days draws near. First war will come to Gondor and then to Mordor itself. Aragorn will have need of his kin – the Dunedain," Lord Elrond added.

“I will go to the Men of the North," Glorfindel volunteered, as Arwen nodded with approval.

“My brothers have fought side by side with the Dunedain for many lives of men. They will accompany you," Arwen said softly.

“The world of men will also have need of the warhammers of the dwarves – they must be rallied and armed for this fight," Lord Elrond said, the proclamation met with a number of distasteful looks from elves around the table, though no expression could match the disgust on Thranduil’s face.

“We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the Dark Days," he hissed. “They are thieves, plunderers, driven by greed and lust for gold and the gems of the earth. They care for none but—”

“But they are brave warriors and loyal," Tauriel finished. “I will go to them," she promised, touching the bracer she wore which they now saw was inlaid with the runes of dwarves and elvish script. The reminder she wore of Kili, her dwarven love who was long slain.

“Tauriel," Thranduil said, his voice low. “These _dwarves_ nearly destroyed you last time. They are takers. They will break you again," he warned. This was the thanks he got for allowing the disgraced elf to return to his service. She was still running after dwarves, even after all these long years.

“This is not about _them,"_ Tauriel said fiercely. “You have heard it from the mouths of the most powerful, the wisest of the elven lords. If we do not unite the peoples of Middle Earth, we will all be destroyed. There will be no Haven to run to and no great halls to _hide in,"_ she said coldly as Thranduil’s eyes flashed.

“Tauriel is right," Gandalf said sternly. “We must put old prejudices aside and stand together or there is no hope, none at all.”

Thranduil stood up. “Where are you going?” Gandalf asked in consternation.

“To ready my steed and unite my people. I must raise an army to turn the tide of this war," Thranduil said solemnly. “The elves of Mirkwood will stand with the children of Men. If you hear of my son, send word with the swiftest beast you can find," he said softly, his proud façade wavering for a moment.

“Thranduil is right," Tauriel said. “The time for talk is over. We must act now to safeguard the future of our world and the world of men," she declared, following her king’s example.

And so each of the small council made their preparations. The time was short and darkness was already creeping beyond the borders of Mordor…


	3. The Horn of Gondor

“How soon must you depart?” Arwen asked, having followed Lord Elrond to his private medicine store, and watching as he placed dried herbs, bulbs, roots, and jars filled with healing ointments in a small satchel. 

“I must ride at once for Nen Hithoel. Aragorn will lead the Fellowship to Parth Galen - he means to lead them on foot through the Emyn Muil, but they will not get that far. They will be beset on all sides by Saruman’s Uruk-Hai ere long,” Lord Elrond said grimly. 

“May the Valar guide and guard your steps, Father,” Arwen said in farewell, kissing his cheek as his steward and kinsman Erestor readied his elven horse in the courtyard. 

“Stay within the bounds of Imladris in my absence, Arwen. You will give guidance and comfort to your kin in my stead,” he instructed, mounting his horse, and accepting the elven sword, longbow and quiver Erestor handed him. Arwen nodded her assent, though her thoughts seemed very far away.

“There is water and provisions enough for a journey of many weeks, my lord Elrond,” Erestor said solemnly, indicating the saddlebags he had packed with care. 

“My thanks, Erestor. Watch over her,” he added quietly. 

Erestor nodded as Lord Elrond murmured a command to his horse Polodren who bounded away in a gallop, carrying the elven lord far from his home. The road was long and time was short. Already the shadows were deepening.

* * *

The journey from Rivendell to Parth Galen was a long, wearying one for Lord Elrond. It was a distance of eight-hundred and seventeen miles. A common horse might cover twenty miles a day, but there was nothing common about Elrond’s horse Polodren. He was the finest steed an elven lord could ask for, a grey Malledhrim stallion, descended from Nahar, the famed steed of Oromë, the legendary huntsman of the Valar. Intelligent, tireless, swift and sure-footed, Polodren could cover twice the distance of a common horse without tiring, needing no bit or bridle to direct him, but the merest command from Lord Elrond was sufficient to turn his swift feet and strong legs in the direction his rider wished to go. 

Three days Elrond and Polodren journeyed together over rough mountain terrain from the foothills and valleys of Imladris to the High Pass. By noon on the fourth day, they had reached the northernmost side of the Misty Mountains. Fifty miles Polodren carried Elrond across the snowy slopes of the Misty Mountains, down to the Old Ford. On the ninth day of the journey from Rivendell, Elrond reached the Gladden Fields, allowing Polodren a rest in the swampy marshlands, before continuing on for six more days, following the Anduin River to the borders of the Golden Wood of Lorien and the Field of Celebrant. Hundreds of miles Polodren had carried him and yet, there were many more miles to go.

From the Field of Celebrant, Polodren’s tireless hooves carried him one hundred and thirty miles to the Down and Brown Lands, into the rocky maze of the Emyn Muil. It was said that the Emyn Muil was impassable by horse, but Lord Elrond had studied the secret ways and knew a hidden path from long ago that Polodren’s nimble feet could tread, the elven horse never once balking at a steep slope or rocky cliff-face. Elrond directed him along secret paths that no man had walked since the Elder Days, finally arriving upon the green lawns of Parth Galen on the western side of the great lake of Nen Hithoel, more than nineteen days after departing Rivendell, Polodren having carried him hither in half the time of a common horse.

Lord Elrond gave him a weary pat and sank onto the soft grass. He had arrived a few days ahead of the Fellowship. Galadriel had estimated they would arrive with the waxing moon, four days hence. He would use the time to rest and plan his next move. It would not be prudent to wander heedlessly into the very ambush that he had been forewarned of. 

* * *

Elrond passed several days resting from his long journey, hidden from sight in the shadows of the hill of Amon Hen. He turned Polodren loose in the woods to graze; the elven horse was intelligent enough to evade any orcs that wandered into the woods and Elrond would call him if he had need. For now, he was considering where the wisest course lay. The Fellowship had left the waters of the Anduin the previous night and were encamped in Parth Galen nearby. Elrond had observed them coming ashore himself, the sound of the elven boats being dragged ashore having roused him from deep thoughts. He had not deemed it wise to reveal himself to them under the shadows of night. The presence of orcs on the eastern bank of the river had given the Fellowship cause for fear. Revealing himself to them suddenly was unwise for two reasons. The first being that such warriors as Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Boromir were remarkably quick to draw weapons, and Elrond may suffer a mortal wound from one of them before they realised his identity. The second reason being that such a fight or even raised voices if he should startle the group was doubly unwise with orcs so close at hand. So he had withdrawn to the slopes of Amon Hen to wait. 

Now that day had broken, he considered the question of whether to reveal himself to the Fellowship once again. The Fellowship was destined to break into three, so Galadriel said. But the quest was not necessarily doomed to fail, not if Boromir could be saved from a mortal wounding and permitted to seek a path of redemption. Elrond saw clearly now, the breaking of the Fellowship must be allowed to stand, for each of the Fellowship must go their separate ways to bring about the necessary chain of events to ensure Sauron’s defeat, this much he understood. It was a matter of weighing the risks. If he revealed himself too early and prevented the Fellowship from dividing, he risked changing the course of events that would be caused by each of these individuals. Such events were needed for Sauron’s defeat. Yet, if he revealed himself too late, he risked Boromir’s life and possibly the lives of the others should they be slain or wounded by the orcs. 

He retreated to the High Seat of Amon Hen to consider, though he already knew there was no choice to make. If it came down to a choice between saving the peoples of Middle Earth or saving Boromir, the son of Denethor’s life would have to be forfeited. Sometimes, there was no choice, and the path was already laid. 

“Lord Elrond?” a quiet voice called, and the elven lord spun around, his hand already on the hilt of his sword before he saw who it was. 

“Frodo Baggins,” he said slowly, studying the hobbit who looked decidedly shaken, though not at seeing Elrond so unexpectedly. 

“What are you doing here?” Frodo asked distractedly.

“I have come to lend my aid,” he said grimly. “You seem troubled, Frodo. I offer you my counsel,” he added kindly, kneeling so that he was at the hobbit’s eye level. 

The hobbit looked doubtful. “Boromir has already given me his counsel,” he said with a shudder, fear flickering in his eyes. 

Elrond studied his face for a moment before speaking. “He tried to take it from you, then?”

Frodo looked startled. “How did you know?” he asked. 

“Galadriel told me he would be tempted. They all will if the Fellowship stays together. She warned you of the very same, did she not?” he said shrewdly. 

“She did,” Frodo admitted. “You think I should go alone then?”

“I have not come to sway you to one course or the other, Frodo. The One Ring is a great evil and a deadly temptation to even the stoutest of heart. I believe you will make the right choice when the time comes,” he said solemnly. 

The sound of cries and clashing swords reached their ears from the woods below. Elrond and Frodo both drew their swords, listening anxiously. 

“The orcs have crossed the river,” Elrond said quietly. “Hide and make for the eastern bank and the Emyn Muil at the first chance,” he instructed him. 

Frodo hesitated, glancing at his sword which was tinged with blue. 

“You cannot fight them, Frodo, but I can,” he said confidently. “Go, I will look after the others.” 

Frodo nodded and sheathed his sword, fleeing into the woods below, his elven cloak soon lost from sight. 

Elrond descended the hill, listening intently. He considered going to the Fellowship’s camp at Parth Galen, Aragorn needed to be warned of the imminent danger, but the decision was taken out of his hands as a band of Uruk-Hai spotted him. He felt a flicker of fear, a fluttering of the pulse, before a deadly calm overtook him. He spared the advancing Uruk-Hai one look of withering elven contempt and swung right, his sword Hadhafang cutting easily through the torso of the nearest Uruk. He decapitated one and clove his sword through the skull of another, very nearly splitting the foul creature neatly in two. A fourth Uruk rushed at him and he plunged his sword hilt-deep in its chest, before the remaining Uruk fell with Elrond’s curved Elven knife embedded in its throat. 

He hurried to the camp at Parth Galen before more Uruk Hai found him, but the camp was deserted. Worse still, he found Boromir’s shield leaning against a nearby tree. Furious, Elrond slung the shield over his shoulder. At least he would put it to its intended use. 

He called for Polodren as he left the camp behind, heading deeper into the woods. The elven horse ran to his side a few moments later, seeming to appear out of the shadows, his grey coat glistening in the mid-morning sun. Elrond sheathed his sword and swung onto Polodren’s back, taking his elven bow into his hand instead and fitting an arrow to the string. Erestor had filled his quiver with many grey feathered arrows. Elrond would have need of them all. 

The blast of a horn echoed through the forest, a horn Elrond recognised. The very same horn Boromir had blown on the occasion of the Fellowship setting out from Rivendell on their quest. 

_“Slow should you be to wind that horn again, Boromir, until you stand once more on the borders of your land and dire need is on you,”_ he had said to the Gondorian. How bitter the words tasted now. The need was indeed dire. 

Polodren bore him away through the forest, his gait smooth and swift as Elrond loosed many arrows from his bow string, slaying every Uruk that strayed across his path. The blasts of Boromir’s horn continued to echo, and Elrond urged Polodren to follow the sound as swiftly as his feet may. The elven horse surged into a clearing where dozens of Uruk Hai had already been slain. 

A single Uruk stood on a rise, a bow in his hands. He fired at Polodren, grazing the elven horse’s flank. Elrond fitted an arrow to his own bow and fired, piercing the Uruk through the eye, just as the Uruk loosed another arrow from his bow. Polodren stepped nimbly aside, out of the line of fire and Elrond watched as the arrow buried itself in Boromir’s chest, the elven lord’s heart falling like a stone. The Uruk was slain, but he, Elrond Halfelven had failed to protect the Gondorian. 

The remaining Uruk-Hai force seized the hobbits, Merry and Pippin struggling uselessly as they were borne away. Elrond let them go, knowing it needed to happen this way, though that didn’t stop him loosing a few arrows into the horde of retreating Uruk-Hai who had attained the prize Saruman had sent them for: halflings, but fortunately not the one bearing the Ring of Power. There was small comfort in that. 

Elrond made sure the last of the Uruk-Hai had truly gone before urging Polodren to Boromir’s side, where he dismounted and seized the small satchel Arwen had seen him packing medicinal herbs and remedies into before he had departed Rivendell. 

“You let them go,” Boromir said accusingly, swaying on his feet. 

Elrond nodded with a sigh. “They are only captured, not slain, Boromir. We will get them back,” he promised. “Now lie still and let me tend your wound,” he ordered, easing the Gondorian onto the ground. 

Elrond heard a noise behind him and whirled around, drawing his sword from its sheath, but it was only Aragorn who had also come to Boromir’s aid, too late. 

“My lord, Elrond,” he exclaimed in surprise, bowing his head respectfully. 

“Aragorn, you are unhurt. Good,” Elrond said with evident relief. “Help me with him,” he ordered, handing Aragorn his medicine bag. 

“If the arrow has pierced his heart, there will be little we can do,” Aragorn said grimly, knowing well how often orcs used barbed arrows tipped with deadly poisons. 

Elrond was already examining the wound, pain or poison seeming to have rendered Boromir unconscious for the present. 

“Thank the Valar, it seems to have glanced off a rib and missed the vital organs. His heart is undamaged as far as I can tell,” Elrond said, a little hope stirring within him. “Barring infection, he will live.” he said reassuringly. 

“How can I assist you, Lord Elrond?” Aragorn asked, for he had trained under the healing master for many years as a young man. 

“Open the satchel,” Elrond instructed. “Bring me the mortar and pestle, honey, ammoniac salt, narcissus bulb and reed root.” 

Aragorn followed his instructions quickly, bringing the required items to Elrond, who ground the herbs with skilled hands, and mixed the herb remedy with the honey. 

“Do you know this remedy, Aragorn?” Elrond asked, testing his former pupil as he flushed out the wound with a vial of purified Bruinen water. 

“Yes, Lord Elrond,” Aragorn replied, as Elrond poured the mixture around Boromir’s wound. “The combination of these herbs and the honey aid in extracting arrow points, similar to the properties of dittany. The great hunters among the Dunedain tell tales of arrows falling from wounded stags in areas where the animals have grazed on the dittany plant.” 

“It minimises the damage,” Elrond said instructively. “Pulling the arrow out further tears at the flesh. But with this remedy,” he demonstrated, the barbed tip of the arrow shaft sliding effortlessly from the wound. “You see?” Aragorn nodded. 

“What is our next step?” Elrond asked him. 

“Sealing the wound,” Aragorn replied immediately. 

“And this is done, how?” Elrond asked. Chief of the Dunedain Aragorn might be, but to an elf of three thousand years, he was still the child Estel, learning at the elf lord’s knee. 

“Honey and cerate wax mixed with oil or lard. It staunches the blood flow, binds the flesh, prevents infection and seals the wound,” he summarised, already mixing the ingredients for Lord Elrond. 

“Very good, Estel,” Elrond said, using the name Aragorn had been given by the elves as a child and watching as the Ranger carefully applied it to the wound. “Final step?” he asked, a small smile forming at the corners of his mouth seeing the healing mastery Aragorn had obtained over the years. Aragorn had been too long gone from Imladris, keeping a watchful eye on the mortal lands with the Dunedain. 

“Binding the wound,” Aragorn answered immediately. 

“With?” Elrond said sternly.

“Crushed reed root and narcissus bulb covered in a plaster of honey, gillyflower and birth root, bound in linen strips,” Aragorn replied, already preparing the plaster and herbs to be applied. 

Elrond nodded, well pleased. He watched as Aragorn applied the crushed herbs and the plaster, binding Boromir’s wounded chest with care. The Gondorian stirred as he finished securing the linen bandages. 

“Aragorn,” he murmured, his eyes flickering open. “They took the little ones!” he exclaimed, remembering the moments before his wounding. 

“Rest,” Aragorn said sternly.

Boromir shifted restlessly. “Where is Frodo?” he asked urgently, but the Ranger shook his head. 

“He will have crossed to the other side of the Anduin by now,” Lord Elrond answered. 

“You spoke with him?” Aragorn said. 

“I tried to take the Ring from him,” Boromir admitted remorsefully.

“He has set out alone,” Elrond said, ignoring Boromir. “He feared the Ring would destroy you all.”

“He may be right,” Boromir said grimly. “Forgive me, Aragorn. I will redeem myself to you, I swear it.” 

Legolas and Gimli entered the glade shortly after, relieved to see that Boromir was alive, though wounded. Aragorn and Elrond went to examine the campsite for traces of Frodo, while the elf and dwarf kept the Gondorian company, amusing him with tales of their competition of who had slain the most Uruk Hai. 

Aragorn and Elrond returned to the small group after a quarter of an hour with tidings of the signs they had found by the campsite and river. 

“Frodo did not set out alone. Sam went with him,” Aragorn announced. 

“The Ringbearer must complete his quest without your aid, Aragorn,” Elrond said warningly. “I have seen it, as has the Lady Galadriel. War comes. You are needed elsewhere.”

“You would have me abandon Frodo?” Aragorn said incredulously. 

“I would have you _trust_ Frodo,” Elrond said carefully. “And trust _me._ There are others who will aid him in your stead.” 

Aragorn nodded, though still uneasy about letting Frodo go alone. 

“What road are we to take?” Boromir asked, looking between them. 

“You must recover your strength first,” Elrond said sternly.

“What of the little ones? You cannot mean to leave them in the hands of the orcs!” Boromir exclaimed. 

“No. Aragorn will pick up their trail. Take Legolas and the dwarf with you,” Elrond instructed. “We will rest a few days and then ride for Gondor - Polodren shall bear us both to Minas Tirith.”

“Minas Tirith?” Boromir repeated, his eyes shining at the thought of home. 

“We will petition the Steward for aid. Saruman moves to open war against Rohan. We shall need every sword," Elrond said grimly. 

“You shall have it,” Boromir said, promising himself that he would do all in his power to persuade the Steward, his lord-father to send aid. 

“We must move if we are to catch those orcs, Aragorn,” Gimli declared. 

“The dwarf is right. Go, Aragorn. Our paths will meet again soon,” Elrond promised. 

“I will redeem myself to you, _my king,”_ Boromir murmured softly as the Three Hunters sprang away through the trees in pursuit of the Uruk Hai. 

“You will, I am certain,” Lord Elrond told him. 

He helped Boromir back to the campsite and set water to boil over a fire, casting some dried leaves into the small pot that Samwise Gamgee had left behind. 

“More medicine?” Boromir asked as a sweet aroma rose from the boiling water. 

“Tea," Elrond told him with a raised eyebrow. “Would you care for a cup, Son of Denethor? We have much to discuss.” 

Boromir nodded his assent with a sigh. 

“Now, you left _this_ behind,” Elrond said sternly, dropping Boromir’s shield at his feet. “You do know the purpose of a shield, do you not?” 

“Just remind me,” Boromir said with half a smile, feeling the dull ache of his wound throb. He was already regretting not having gone with Aragorn.


End file.
